The Thief

the sanctuary. The echo became louder in the huge space.

But that room is empty, I wondered, my heart still pounding in my chest. What could they want in there?

The footsteps had ceased and there was silence for several moments. In the absence of sound, I could swear I heard my own heartbeat. Who was it? Was it even a person? What else could exist, if something like this Tower did?

Then, the faint tinkling of glass filled the silence. I blinked. Glass. The lamps in the ceiling? What could be going on in there? My curiosity overrode my fear and I crept along the side of the wall further into the garden, aiming for one of the stained glass windows that overlooked it. I could peek in without being seen, surely...

There was a human-shaped figure beyond the dark glass, standing perfectly still in the center of the sanctuary with one hand outstretched, palm forward. The shadows of the lamps overhead were swinging as if there was a mild breeze running through the place. I squinted from my carefully angled vantage. The glass was too dark...it was hard to make out what he was doing – it looked like a man, I decided, with some disappointment. His head was bowed, and while the rest of him remained still, his outstretched arm swung to the far side of the sanctuary. The colors in the glass there began to change, and the fragments themselves took on new shapes, their edges twisting and elongating, the images there making a new, active scene.

I watched with rapt attention. He didn’t seem to be saying anything. He didn’t even seem to be looking at what he was doing. His fingers twisted in a gesture and the shapes of glass of the man at a brook ordered themselves into a horse and rider, the beast impatiently pawing at the ground with its hooves. He raised his right arm in front of him, towards the giant pane at the front of the sanctuary, and the glass there shifted to take on the scene of a castle on a hill, a stylized sun shining brightly at the top of the large circular pane. He swung his left arm around and the rider spurred the horse into action. Following the movement of his hand, the horseman galloped across all the panes on the left side of the room, disappearing when he hit the edge of a pane and reappearing in the next. His hands came together and the rider appeared at the base of the hill ready to charge towards the castle.

He flicked up his left hand in a halting gesture, and the window froze in place, just as the horse reared back. It was a beautiful frame, stunning in its color, use of motion, and the tangible sense of the rider’s determination. The man’s methods struck me as familiar. It was...not exactly like photography...more than that...it was almost like directing, or composing – that was it – he was composing! But with something other than sound...how did he do it? And he never looked up.

His right arm stretched out to the glass before me and I flinched away, reflexively hiding behind the wall. A glance told me the window I had been looking through was morphing, just as the pane with the rider had originally. It was becoming an indoor scene, the hue of the glass lightening. I wondered if his head was still down, if I could see him more clearly now. Chancing it, I crouched by the corner of the window and peered over the sill as the colors were still setting. The scene was a woman knitting at a window, and through the pale glass that formed her white dress I studied the composer. He was tall, but he didn’t look as old as I’d originally assumed. He wore faded jeans and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off lightly muscled forearms. His dark hair was just long enough to obscure his down-turned face at this angle, and I was embarrassed when my heart gave an awkward lurch. He was kind of hot.

The woman in her pane held her needle and cloth with a wistful expression, paying more attention to the sky out her window than her knitting.

“No,” he murmured, the first sound I’d heard from him, and his head twisted in annoyance but still didn’t rise, though I was ready to duck if he did. His fingers flexed and the woman’s hair changed color from brown to a vibrant red. It grew long and curly, and kept growing till it pooled around her feet. His fingers flexed again, freezing her in place like he’d done to the rider.

He sighed, and his hands dropped, going to smooth his hair back as he looked up finally. I dropped silently, my hand over my mouth, kneeling below the sill with my heart pounding, but I was sure he hadn’t seen me. He had been looking at the giant pane of the castle and the rider. No, my face was scarlet because I had recognized him in that brief moment before I hid. It was Rhys, Kei’s handsome, taciturn friend.

I heard the sound of his probably overpriced loafers pacing around the sanctuary and I pressed myself tighter against the wall, as if that would somehow help. My mind raced. Rhys? What the hell? Did he own this place? Did he...a new thought crossed my mind, in light of what he’d just done, did he build it? I’d never expected to find someone I actually knew in the Tower. But I had just seen Rhys reassemble a stained glass window with a thought and a gesture.

On the other hand, if he could do all that, why hadn’t he sensed my presence, or whatever? If he was made of magic – if the Tower was made of his own magic, wouldn’t he have like some kind of intruder detection system? My brows knitted. I didn’t know how these things worked, exactly, but if I could...do that...I would.

I heard the crash of glass from somewhere in the sanctuary. Rhys made a noise of frustration that echoed in the huge, empty space. I risked it and peered stealthily over the ledge again.

“Every time,” he grumbled, seemingly to no one, running his hands through his hair as he paced. “Every time it falls apart.”

The panes of forests and fields that the rider had passed through on the left side of the room had crumbled, littering the stone floor with shards of glass. Rhys inspected his hand. I thought I saw electricity spark between his fingertips.

“What’s the point?” he yelled, and the pane with the castle burst outward, as if from a shockwave.

I cringed, pressing myself against the wall like I could melt into it. What exactly did I sit next to in science class?

“Master Ryan,” I heard another voice say, echoing in the room now. “You’re in high spirits today, sir.” Where was it coming from? I didn’t see anyone else in the room.

“Spare me,” Rhys said. “Every effort I make is wasted. This place is too unstable.”

“Perhaps with more practice,” the voice said.

I craned my neck, trying to get a better angle and still stay out of sight. Rhys was looking towards the door when he spoke, but that side of the room was out of my field of vision. Had someone else come in with him? There was a high-pitched sound that made my ears ring. I assumed it was residual from the panes bursting.

“I have practiced, Porter, you know that. You’ve seen me here almost every day for a year and have I improved at all?”

“You have, sir,” the voice said.

“Yeah, well, it falls apart anyway,” he snapped. “Going through all those records by myself is taking way too much time.”

“I’m afraid I - ”

“Cannot help me, I know,” Rhys cut the voice off.

The faint high-pitched sound was getting louder. I blinked, feeling it all the way in my optical nerves. It was distracting me from the conversation inside, and I had to learn more. I needed to understand what this place was. Rhys had answers, but I wasn’t sure he’d be very happy to see me...

A shrill crack. I looked up. A fracture ran the length of the window above me, threatening to snap the glass woman in half. It cracked again, branching like lightning across her face. I curled up just in time. The window shattered, raining glass all around me. I yelped as I felt some of the sharp pieces graze my fingers.

“What was that?” Rhys demanded.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned sooner,” the voice said placidly, “we have a visitor.”

Reflexively, I bolted through the garden, into the foyer. Rhys was already blocking the exit to the stairwell, and tendrils of glass were creeping across the door to the library. Panicked, I ducked into the sanctuary. I immediately regretted it, but where else would I have gone?

“Porter!” Rhys called. “Stop her!”

“I cannot,” said the placid, hollow voice, echoing through the sanctuary. I spun, looking for the source. A small mirror, on the wall by the door, showed a bleary, ghostly face.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Rhys demanded, entering the doorway.

“I cannot,” the mirror repeated.

With a low growl of frustration, Rhys made a grasping gesture with one hand. I shrieked as I nearly lost my balance - tendrils of glass had snaked up from the floor, trying to curl around my legs to root me to floor. I danced